Page 1 of The Wallflower and the Duke
PROLOGUE
London, 1814
Marjorie’s best ideas came in the thick of the night.
Stealing away from her parents’ party with the Viscount Chadwick probably wasn’t going to be considered one of them.
Still, she stifled a giggle and dashed down the darkened hallway as all six feet of the handsome man lumbered forward in a crooked mask to match the grin on his face.
“Slow down, Margie.”
She frowned. She hated that name. Almost as much as she hated someone telling her what to do.
“Ssh, we’ll be caught if you don’t hurry up.”
With a quick glance down the hallway, she leaned against her bedchamber door, her heart thudding in her chest. She was lovestruck, clearly, to ever permit this. Her bedroom was her sanctuary, even while her parents threw another one of their legendary parties.
Actors and actresses, clowns and monkeys, sheiks and Russian czars—the guest lists were almost as unbelievable as her lack of judgment right now. She was a wallflower, not someone who would consider a reckless dalliance with a charming lord.
But this lord?
Maybe she could make an exception.
“What’s the harm in it when we are to be married?” he asked, backing her up against the door and leaning down as if to kiss her.
Marjorie made a small squeak in the back of her throat and opened the door, spinning to give them space.
“Well?” she asked, standing inside her darkened bedchamber. She was thankful he couldn’t see the blush burning on the apples of her cheeks. “You keep telling me about this wedding of ours, but you’ve failed to ask me—or my father, for that matter.”
He tipped his head up slightly, gazing down at her. Even in the dim firelight, his brown eyes burned her.
“You know I must sort things out with the estate first.”
She balled her fists, fighting back the stab of jealousy blooming in her chest. The damn man loved his family’s crumbling home more than her. That must be it, otherwise she couldn’t think of a good enough reason why he would continue courting her secretly these past two years.
“Percy,” she warned. Marjorie reached out and grasped his hand, hauling him into her bedchamber and peeking out into the hall before closing the door shut.
They might have escaped for now, but she didn’t know for how long.
“Why are you here?” she finally asked as the silence stretched between them.
He shrugged, fussing with his mask.
Please, keep it on. Please.
Too late. With one swift tug, he removed his mask, and she swore all her usual stony defenses crumbled.
“You were tired of the party. Asked to retreat to some place quiet. I am, as always, here to do as you wish, you sweet wallflower.”
She objected to that nickname as well but kept it to herself.
Just because she preferred her room to the chaos of growing up in the famous Merryweather acting family didn’t change the fact it was also necessary to protect her secret.
Miss Marjorie Merryweather, daughter, twin, and yes, wallflower—was also a successful gothic novelist. For three years, she published under a male pseudonym, fearful of the fallout if anyone ever discovered the truth.
But she would need to tell Percy if they were to be married.
She was sick of spending hours locked away in her room until her fingers were stained black and her eyes bleary from lack of sleep, pretending as if she were living her most exciting adventure with no one else to tell.
